No Windmills Today
by girl in the glen
Summary: A dire warning comes close to fortelling someone's future, but it isn't the one who receives the message. PicFic entry.


_Just a note regarding something you'll recognize as maybe a little off the beaten track: Illya often hops onto something in one easy motion, then perches atop a railing, a bed... whatever. I find it quite endearing. I also found it irresistible as an anecdote. Please, just go with it.  
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Napoleon Solo and his partner, Illya Kuryakin, were seated beneath a brightly colored umbrella that fronted a small cantina in the coastal town of Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico. Street vendors had been plying the Russian with local delicacies all day long: fish tacos, freshly caught lobster still encased in the red claws; churros, that sugary cinnamon pastry unique to Mexico. All in all, Illya had eaten well and forestalled the usual boredom of surveillance work while Napoleon grimaced at his need to watch what he consumed lest he lose his boyish figure. On the other side of the street a man peddled by on his bicycle, fully equipped for more hungry customers like the Russian.

There seemed no danger, however, of Illya putting on weight, something that had irked Solo considerably ever since meeting the nearly waif like blond. His small stature was at once surprising and engaging, especially to the secretarial pool. He sometimes hopped up on a desk and squatted in front of one of the smitten girls, making her blush as he cooed something Russian; all of it to the amazement of the entire room.

Standing now as they were, soaking up the shade of the umbrella rather than the scorching heat of a summer day, the two agents surveyed the dusty street that ran along the length of this part of town. A few American tourists were making the rounds of shops and eateries, while the local population looked on with bored expressions. From haggling over merchandise, to drunken students and the occasional victim of Montezuma's revenge, Ensenada was a favorite for those unable, or unwilling, to travel any farther below the border, a little more seductive than Tijuana, the first stop on the round of border towns. This affable community felt safe even to the suburbanites from San Diego and Los Angeles.

In the midst of this unusual respite, and still beneath the big umbrella, Napoleon was assaulted by an old woman who was wrapped in a large black shawl. Her dark skin and black eyes made her seem almost invisible inside of her covering, but the noise she emitted insured that she was not. In a move that might have gotten a man knocked down and possibly shot, she grabbed the American with both of her hands, turning him towards her.

**"¡Cuidado! Una mujer con el pelo oscuro, señor. Aléjate de ella."**

The woman yelled it at the stunned American and ran quickly away as the last word was uttered. Illya started to go after her but Napoleon grabbed his arm and held him back.

"Don't, it was nothing. Something about…" Illya had heard it as well and interpreted it quickly.

"She said to beware of a black-haired woman, to stay away from her. My first thought was Gervaise Ravel, but she's in prison. Who else have you been making jealous, Napoleon?' A sly grin came over the blond's features. "Of course she may have been referring to Angelique's natural hair color."

Napoleon shook his head, trying to not smile back at the caustic comment.

"It was nothing, I'm sure. Look, we're here to pick up Guillermo Perez and that was nothing more than…"

Just then a very attractive woman walked up to Napoleon and put her hand out to touch him. Illya saw something and quickly turned her away, but in the process he came in contact with the woman's hand. The raven-haired beauty screamed and immediately collapsed onto the cobblestone beneath her.

Illya felt a twinge of something like splinters gouging his fingers, then a rush of heat like flames engulfed his hand.

"Illya! What happened?" The woman began writhing in pain as the skin on her body became inflamed, her screams serving to drive people away from the small cluster trying to help.

"Don't touch her!" Illya yelled out in English and Spanish, his own agony now only beginning. Napoleon was panic stricken at the speed at which things had happened. Would Illya meet the same fate as this strange woman had? _A black-haired woman_. The old woman had been right, but perhaps it was not mysterious at all; she had seen her and knew more about this than they at first surmised.

The blond was holding his affected hand inside of his jacket, hoping to avoid touching anyone else and spreading whatever this was that had infected the woman and now him. A policeman had rushed onto the scene, a flurry of noise and high pitched voices all trying to explain the situation. Napoleon did his best to speak to the man, repeating the phrase 'virus mortal', hoping the message would be clear. He prompted Illya to remove his hand from inside his jacket and showed it to the policeman. It was red and slightly swollen, already showing signs of whatever had killed the woman.

Napoleon opened his communicator and called in the events as they had occurred. Mr. Waverly assured him that a medical team would arrive shortly from San Diego… within the hour by helicopter. Napoleon hoped that it wouldn't be too late for his friend.

The policeman called in more men to help with the strange situation, including a coroner's van to transport the body. Based on Napoleon's warning they were carefully dressed with gloves on their hands and surgical cloth masks. No one had a clue as to the woman's condition, nor did they have any indication that she had made contact with anyone else prior to reaching the two UNCLE agents.

Napoleon was stewing over his partner's actions, wondering what had prompted him to do what he had.

"Illya, what made you grab her? She was not visibly affected, not that I could see." It was uncanny that the Russian ended up in the line of fire, so to speak. The woman had headed directly for Solo, as though to validate the words of the old woman in the black shawl.

"I saw the color of her skin and… something told me to keep her away from you. Perhaps it was the old woman's warning, or … I do not know for certain. It was a reflex, like shooing away a fly or a stray dog."

Napoleon considered that, thoughtful and regretful that his partner would now pay a price; it was uncertain what that would be.

"Illya… " The blond did not look up to meet his friend's gaze.

"I would do it again, Napoleon. I believe you would do the same for me, my friend. I am fine, everything will be all right." He wasn't sure he believed it, but Illya wouldn't wallow in this. The main thing now was to find out what it was, and how to get rid of it.

Ninety minutes later Napoleon and Illya were heading back to San Diego and a medical team waiting to examine and treat the afflicted agent. Illya had begun to feel feverish as the discomfort in his hand intensified. Redness and swelling accompanied the pain as time wore on, and the blond was becoming increasingly disoriented. When the chopper touched down in front of the medical facility on Coronado Island it was greeted by staff in gear suitable for handling hazardous chemicals. As they gathered the stricken Russian and got him on a gurney and into the building, Napoleon was also commandeered; he was stripped and hosed down with antibiotic astringents and then herded into a shower to wash all of that down the drain. The military was in charge here and they weren't taking any chances on spreading whatever had killed the woman in Ensenada.

When Napoleon was finally allowed to dry off and dress he requested his communicator. It had been similarly disinfected, but was still operational.

"Open Channel D, this is Napoleon Solo in … ah, San Diego."

"Yes, Mr. Solo… please, what have you learned about the incident in Ensenada?" Waverly needed an update in order to direct his people in Mexico. This was a THRUSH concoction of some sort and it was imperative that they find the satrapy responsible and shut it down.

"Mr. Kuryakin is being examined and … well, he's hopefully being treated. The symptoms were already visible, sir." Napoleon's voice could not hide his concern for his friend and partner. What they all needed to know was how long the deceased woman had been exposed to … He didn't know what to call it.

"Dreadful affair. Poor woman was reported missing by her husband two days ago. The police have determined that she was abducted at that time, possibly earlier since the man had been away on business for a week. It is entirely possible that THRUSH was holding her for as long as ten days. Mr. Kuryakin was only exposed for a few minutes; we must assume… we will hope that is not enough for a lethal dose to be transmitted from one person to another."

Napoleon wondered why she had been targeted, and asked if any background information was available.

"We are working on it, Mr. Solo. At this time we can find no association with the Hierarchy, nothing to indicate her involvement.' The pause let both men reflect for a moment. "Keep me informed, Mr. Solo. Waverly out."  
Napoleon sighed, his energy suddenly zapped from all of the adrenaline and worry. It wasn't a normal situation, it hadn't been mission related. Or was it?

Napoleon opened the channel once again. He had a hunch and something told him to follow it all the way back to Ensenada.

Illya was put through a similar disinfection process as Napoleon had endured. The afflicted hand was examined, cleaned and tissue and blood samples were taken. Illya was feverish, and in that state he became uncooperative enough to be restrained in his hospital bed. Because the doctors were watching for signs of the infection on his hand spreading to other parts of his body, the blond woke periodically in a familiar state of undresss.

"Otpustite!" The blond bellowed from his confinement, startling a nurse and instigating a near lockdown at the U.S. Naval Hospital.

"Hey! Is he Russian? What the … how did a Russian get in here?" One of the interns was alarmed to find a Soviet in his ward, but one of the physicians on the case was able to explain the situation before it became unmanageable. Napoleon came in about that time, slightly amused that no matter where Illya landed, the hospital staff was bound to end up in an uproar of some sort.

"He's with me, and we are with the U.N.C.L.E. You may have heard of it." The young intern had not hear of UNCLE, but he yielded to what appeared to be an official operation of some sort, glad that this particular Soviet seemed to be on their side, or a good side at any rate.

Napoleon was able to share some important information with the doctors in attendance, and it sent them into hyper speed as they gathered paraphernalia and meds to inject into the patient. Illya was trying to watch the activity but kept drifting back to sleep.

The reports from Ensenada had narrowed down the list of characters, including Marina Estrada and her husband, Jorge. They were, as it turned out, the in-laws of Guillermo Perez, for whom Illya and Napoleon had been waiting while standing beneath that far away umbrella.

Perez and Marina had dined together a week earlier and, tragically, she had been caught in the drama of a THRUSH attempt on her brother-in-law's life. The team in Ensenada discovered Perez's body in an open field near the THRUSH satrapy; it appeared that Marina had been taken and injected with a virus intended for the nearby vineyards of Guadalupe. It was another THRUSH plot against a population through a threat of poisoning their land and, in this case, a harvest intended for much needed revenue.

Why it was determined that injecting a human could accomplish anything was a typical move by the callous head of the Ensenada satrapy. It was still to be determined whether or not Marina's husband was somehow involved.

Fortunately the team called in by Waverly had been able to topple that group and discover the origins of what was now afflicting Illya. Quick work by UNCLE and Navy personnel produced an antidote that was administered within a few hours; now they would wait.

It was a long twenty-four hours for Napoleon as he sat by his friend's bedside. Kuryakin had tossed within his confinement, sputtering out Russian and French, German and a few other choice testaments to his linguistic accomplishments. When he finally woke up free of the symptoms that he brought him to this facility, his mind was still a little fuzzy, his language choices competing for dominance.

"They're calling you Ivan the Terrible. I kind of like that." The smile on Napoleon's face was mostly relief, part amusement. Illya looked around and then indicated his wrists, still in restraints.

"Do you, by any chance, have a key?" It was almost a growl, but a welcome one to the weary American. Waiting for Illya to wake up from near disaster was always a little draining.

"As a matter of fact…' Napoleon obliged and unfastened the leather restraints. Illya rubbed his wrists, grateful to be free and… he held up the hand that had been affected.

"Oh yeah… you're cured." Now the smile on Solo's face was one hundred percent relief. He gave his partner a rundown of what had transpired, the satrapy and the vineyard and the innocent victim. Illya was silent as he listened to the details that had been unearthed during his long nap.

"I am sorry for the loss of that woman's life, Napoleon. If only we had known, or been prepared. If only…" If only evil did not exist in the world was what he wanted to say, but it sounded trite.

"It's why we do what we do, tovarisch. If we stop just one of these maniacs then maybe someone doesn't die at their hands. I'm sorry for the loss of life, but I'm glad you aren't one of the victims."

Sometimes that was all they had, saving each other.


End file.
